


All the World's A Stage

by ohponthavemercy



Category: Now You See Me (2013)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-14 01:37:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1247914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohponthavemercy/pseuds/ohponthavemercy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The mending of J. Daniel Atlas and Henley Reeves’ relationship in five acts (he’s a control freak and she never really pays attention to her lines, but they make it work).</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the World's A Stage

**Prologue**

The one thing that he likes is order. Control. Method.  Never mind that pledge, turn, and prestige stuff – J. Daniel Atlas is more inclined to agree with Shakespeare than the likes of Hugh Jackman and Christian Bale in 19th century gear. There was once a time when he wanted to write, to build and control worlds and stories, before he found his true calling. But that’s not so different from what he does now. Magic, he personally believes, is a play, designed to entertain, to dazzle, to mystify. It is planned, it is premeditated, it is methodical, and it blooms like a midnight flower over the course of hours or perhaps even minutes.

            Unfortunately, life seldom comes in iambic pentameter.

 

**Act 1**

            He’s forgotten what New York was like, all bustling, trembling, self-contained chaos. Not as wild and fun-loving as his Vegas, no – Las Vegas tucks its problems under glitter and neon, but New York has an altogether different feel, cutthroat and fast-paced and hurling itself inexorably forward on the fumes of adrenaline and caffeine. Towards what, he doesn’t know, but whatever it is, he can be sure New York City will meet it at a run.

            Sunlight streams unabashedly into his eyes as he exits the musty-smelling taxi outside of the apartment building. The tarot card slides in his pocket, burdensome and foreign and nothing like his own deck, worn down to slick smoothness. The Lovers, representing relationships and choices, passion and a struggle in temptation, according to Wikipedia. Whatever that means.

            He squints up at the apartment building. Standing on the corner of an intersection, it is tall and ancient, rusty fire escapes twining up and down its sides like vines in an arrangement he might have been tempted to sketch, once. Now, the sight simply fills him with something like nervousness, a primordial bubble in his stomach. He hates mysteries, hates puzzles –  unless he’s the one giving them. 

A woman walks in front of him, a spray of coppery hair blowing back in the wind.

On a hunch, he calls out, “Hey.”

            The woman turns.

            Oh yeah, he also hates surprises.

            “Danny?” She looks exactly the same: the same gauntlets cover her fingers, same scarlet lipstick framing the same curving smile, same bright eyes. He’s even willing to bet the drink sloshing in her Starbucks cup is the same, a caramel macchiato with a pump of hazelnut syrup. She always had an insatiable sweet tooth. “Hey.” 

            He’s always considered himself sharp-tongued, but for some reason, it’s just not working today. But it never does, not around Henley, with the way she’s always seen through his lines. “Hey. Um. So… you, you, uh, you got a card too?” Daniel points at the card glimmering as wedges between her gloved fingers and the cardboard sleeve of her cup.

            She gives him a proud kitten smile, lifting it up proudly. “Yup.”

            “That’s… that’s nice. Congratulations,” he stammers out, before brushing by her. The back of his neck prickles under her gaze as she follows, the sound of her heels clacking like gunshots on the pavement. “Listen, I’m, uh, I’m gonna scout it out, and you, um, you can wait here.” It’s childish, he’s very well aware, but he can’t fight the urge to get away, get away from her blazing, knowing eyes, get away from the one girl who’d always refused to swoon at his tricks, get away from the one girl who’d always managed to effortlessly get under his skin.

            Honeyed nectarines and freshly brewed coffee fill his nose as she overtakes him, clipping up the steps. “Hey, Danny?” She pauses, a step above him, that kitten smile playing on the edge of her lips again as she looks down through her eyelashes like she hasn’t done in years. He freezes. “I’m not your assistant any more. Nice hair, by the way.”

            He blinks rapidly as she breezes through the doors.

            Yeah, no, he hates surprises.

 

**Act 2**

            He has totally  _not_  missed her, no. Not at all.

            Not the way after a long day of practice and planning she sprawls on the couch, red tendrils of hair escaping from the sloppy ponytail he is certainly not tempted to undo sometimes – she’d slap him if he tried, anyways. Not the smell of her perfume, peaches and honey and vanilla, and not the crumbs left behind on his blueprints because she insists on leaning over his shoulder to watch him sketch as she nibbles a bagel. Not the flash of her throat as she laughs because of one of Merritt’s annoying and immature jokes or Jack’s bashfulness (although he did manage, once, to get a laugh out of her after slipping some of his “SUCK IT” cards into Merritt’s suitcases after one particularly irritating argument), and not her raspy voice singsonging “ _Danny_ ” just as he’s fallen deep into thought.

            And certainly not the way she refuses to let him be because of the way he let her go.

            “You sure you wanna eat that, Danny?” She’ll coo sweetly as he grabs a half-finished carton of Chinese, bumping her foot against his.

            He’ll narrow his eyes. “You don’t like their kung pao chicken, so it’s not like you’re going to eat it,” he points out, knocking his foot against her ankle back with more force than intended.

            She won’t flinch at his sternness like Jack will, but will instead coolly lean over to impale a shrimp in his bowl with her chopsticks. “Well, we don’t want you getting stuck in places, do we?”

            They know each other best out of the four, comprehension flitting in her eyes alone as he slams his fist down on the wooden table and says the show’s missing  _something_ , some element, when he tries to explain something to Merritt and the supposed mentalist doesn’t “get it”. He can relax around her, laugh around her.

The truth is, Henley was a great assistant because she’s brilliant, brilliant in the way she thinks on her feet and turns on a dime if needed, brilliant in the way she knows exactly when to support and coax and when to turn harsh and demanding, in the way she’s always, on some level, understood him, at least better than anyone else he knew ever did. It is no surprise to him that she became an escape artist, because she’d always been spunky, and she’d never been afraid of anything, not ever. He’d always liked that about her, but he’d never told her. And now she never gives him a chance.

He tries, though. Little things like “You look good in that,” or “Thanks for getting us lunch”, opening doors, using his headphones instead of blasting his music the way he knows she hates, offering to take care of their obligatory and in his personal opinion, cliché white rabbit named Houdini, buying her a lipstick and leaving it on her desk with a “I, uh, thought it would look good on you.”

“Great job,” he murmurs, turning to her, after their first rehearsal, running through all their tricks but the finale on the newly made stage.

The spotlights bring out the red of her hair, vibrant against the sequined black of her suit. She arches an eyebrow dubiously. “Better than Rebecca?” The hard “c” drops off her lips harshly.

He shuffles awkwardly on the stage, hands in pockets. How does he tell her she always was? How does he tell her there was never any comparison, just him and her and the fear of what lay between?

The toe of her shoe taps impatiently against the highly polished wood, and then Merritt calls, “Hey, Henley, Danny, are we going out for celebration drinks or what?”

She tears her gaze from him to yell over her shoulder, “Yeah, we’re coming!” before turning back to Danny. 

Her brown eyes are cool. “Let me know when you can figure it out,” she says crisply, before whirling around and trotting down the steps of the stage.

 

**Act 3**

             They’ve already set up the priming of Etienne. Now all they need to know is who’s going into the armored truck.

            “I’ve always wanted to lie on a bed of money,” Merritt muses, “but I’ve never heard of going under it..”

            Danny rolls his eyes and scoffs. “Last I heard, you can’t ‘mentally’ steal anything.”

            “Just your heart, Danny boy,” Merritt quips from the opposite side of the room, exaggeratedly blowing him a kiss. Henley, standing by the window, sniggers.

            He leans against the table, crossing his arms. “Alas, unless the area in question is delusion or overrated clichés, I don’t think we’ll be calling on your expertise right now.”

            Merritt opens his mouth to retort, but then Henley cuts in with a mildly irritated “ _Boys._ ” They quiet. “Jack, maybe you should go in the truck.”

            His eyes widen in surprise before Merritt and Danny shoot it down. “No, no, we need him on the outside. Henley, you should go.”

            “Right, because the escapist is used to small spaces,” she shakes her head. “Alright then.”

            Jack pipes up, “If Henley’s going, then Danny should go with her.” Before he can protest, Merritt is making noises of agreement. “I mean, you guys have more experience in this area – no offense, Merritt, and you were partners anyway, so… yeah.”

            She scoffs quietly. “I wouldn’t say  _partners_.”

             “Henley,” he protests, inwardly slightly hurt. “Try to restrain your enthusiasm in being put in a small enclosed space with me for an indefinite amount of time.”

            Merritt shrugs. “So it’s finally settled, then? I can go to sleep now?”

            “I suppose,” she agrees, peeling herself off the wall. Brushing by Danny, she leans in close to his ear. “Think you can last longer than three minutes locked up with just me, Danny?”

            He smirks with more confidence that he feels. “It’s a date.”

            All things considered, it is relatively simple to wedge their way into the armored truck, and he relishes that feeling, walking down the hallways with the cameras set to loop and a briefcase with a fake ID for some company in case. Henley meets him at the parking lot, coming a separate way. Together, they sneak past the guards and slip in the cool recess underneath the bottom of the van, just according to plan. Child’s play. Sometimes it occurs to him, just how easy it would be for them to be caught, running right under the noses of security and people going about their daily business. But he knows it won’t happen. It never does, and it doesn’t now.

            It’s a little squashed and uncomfortable, and he thinks the ends of her hair are tickling his cheek, but at least there’s enough space for the both of them to lie there. She hasn’t breathed a word, and he thinks, if she just lets him lie there in peace, he can get away from this unscathed.

            Except, after a heartbeat, she shifts and mumbles, “Bet you thought I couldn’t fit under here.”

            Danny groans mentally. He’s so, so tired of her constant reminders that he had spend two years without her, a mere street artist, picking up crumbs of her life after he’d finally given in and checked her blog. “Henley. That’s not fair.” He says it lightly, with just a hint of scolding that hopefully will end the conversation.

            It doesn’t. “As not fair as, perhaps, always taking me for granted? Comparing me to Rebecca constantly?”

            He blinks rapidly. This isn’t in the script. But she’s never been good at keeping to the lines he’s written. “I – I –that was a long time ago.”

            “Doesn’t mean I forgive you,” she whispers. “You haven’t even asked for it.”

            He fidgets. “I thought – I thought you knew. I tried to show you –“

            “ –you suck at it,” she retorts chidingly. “Red lipstick is capable of many, many things, but not mending – whatever it was we had.”

            He tilts his head back against the cold metal. “I’ve never done this before.”

            Danny can almost feel her rolling her eyes. “There’s a first for everything.”

            “Well. I, I, um, I’m sorry. I was an asshole. And you’re right, I took you for granted, and I guess – okay, I did, make you feel like second-best compared you to Rebecca, except honestly, there really isn’t a comparison there – “

            She cuts him off, though he thinks she’s blushing. “ - The excess flattery is very appreciated. Now, don’t forget pushing me away.”

            “I never tried – “

            “Yeah, you did. You do.”

            “Okay, I did. And I shouldn’t have, is the point. And I’m sorry. It’s just – you scare me a little, sometimes.”

            Henley claps a hand to her mouth to stifle her laughter, but what little that filters through washes over him. It’s not a mocking laugh, like he was afraid of, but something different and comforting and familiar. The tension goes out of him, before she shifts and suddenly the top of her chin is grazing his shoulder, her breath warm on his skin. “I do?”

            “Yeah. You do,” he admits, sheepishly. “But I mean, I mean, not in a bad way, shit, this is hard to explain…” She’s spontaneity and fearlessness and so so confident in her own skin, and he’s… him.

            But she gets it. She always does. Her chuckles are breathy in his ear, as she takes his hand. “Oh, I missed you.”

            “I missed you too,” he mumbles, and the pressure of her squeezing his hand is really all the answer he wanted.

 

**Act 4**

            The New Orleans act goes along swimmingly, though he’s very tempted to laugh every time he thinks of the fact that FBI agent Rhodes and the little French Interpol agent are just sitting in the audience. He’s pretty sure Henley let the bubble pop on purpose, but he frankly doesn’t mind at all, glad she trusts him to catch her, glad that when he jokes, “Guess you have lost some weight”, her wide grin is the most real thing in the entire show.

            He doesn’t get a chance to ask her anyways, even if he wanted to, because of course the FBI has brought in the cavalry to hunt them down after the little stunt with Tressler.

            Trailing after the others, he leaps down from a back wall into the parking lot, Merritt’s lumbering silhouette ahead as they leap from car to car. The adrenaline coursing through his veins deadens the impact, and it is frankly a miracle to him that Henley is managing just fine on heels, skittering off the metal and plastic to the sidewalk. In fact, he’s even managed to fall behind, the Interpol agent hot on his heels as he turns and dives into the sea of people.

            Mardi Gras is exactly why they even scheduled their second act here, and it’s paying off, he thinks, weaving around partygoers swaying under the weight of ropes of glittering beads. Girls are screaming as they flash the people on the floats, and he accidentally knocks into someone with a long colorful tumbler of alcohol, but they’re thankfully too intoxicated to notice.

            He barely manages to not careen into a stiltwalker arrayed in the clothes of a court jester, throwing himself out of the way of a passing float. Brushing by one of his men in a police uniform, he doesn’t pause to watch as the man trades Rhodes’ tracker for a duplicate. He does, however, smirk in satisfaction.

            His triumph is short-lived, however, one he realizes the blonde is still annoyingly and persistently running after him. Veering off the streets, he goes down a side alley, clambering up the wall into someone’s backyard, until he hears the click of a gun being nocked.

            “Freeze!”

            He turns around slowly, hands in the air. 

            The blonde Frenchwoman is breathing hard, wisps of hair escaping from her professional bun as she aims her gun with shaking hands. A desk worker, he remembers Merritt saying. He meets her gaze levelly, challengingly, daring her to pull the trigger. She won’t, though.

            He’s right. He usually is.

 After a few seconds, she lowers it with a sigh, and before she can say anything, he jumps into the backyard, rolling to his feet on the spiky grass.

            Rhodes’ voice is booming over the sound of the festivities, demanding her what she thinks she’s just done, but he doesn’t care, giddy on the feeling of survival, invincible as he navigates the twisting sidealley next to the yard.

            He watches from the shadows as the FBI agents convene angrily, yelling to each other in the street and giving rapid explanations before eventually trailing their way back to a bar, probably in last-ditch attempts to drink their embarrassment away.

            Danny, satisfied, turns back and walks his way towards the apartment.

            “We were going to send out search parties,” Merritt jokes when he walks in.

            Jack fidgets nervously at the seats at the kitchen counter. “Where are the cops now?”

            He smirks wryly. “Drinking, and probably trying to ignore the news reporters heralding their massive incompetence and wailing about our tax dollars going to waste.”

            Henley, for her part, knowing his dislike for being asked if he’s okay, remains silent as she sits on the couch. “I’m starved,” Merritt moans. “If the coast is clear, I’m going next door to snag food. You coming, kiddos?”

            Jack nods, but Henley leans her head back against the back of the couch. “I don’t understand how you can be perpetually hungry.”

            “Look at the pot calling the kettle black,” Danny notes, but she glares at him as Jack and Merritt leave. Once they’re gone, she sighs. “I can’t believe Mr. High-and-Mighty got himself left behind.”

            He shakes his head. “How’d you make it back here anyway with those heels on?”

            Henley shrugs. “I took them off and carried them.” She demonstrates, wriggling red-painted toes at him.

            He squints. “You’re bleeding.”

            She waves a hand dismissively. “That’s nothing when the FBI are trying to arrest you for mass theft.”

            “It’s something now,” he argues. “Come on now, let me get out the hydrogen peroxide.”

            He perches on the edge of the coffee table in front of her, and she swings her feet in his lap as he dabs at the cuts and scrapes with the requisite amount of grumbling.

            “As much as I  _love_  you playing nurse, I’m not your assistant any more,” she reminds him, scolding. “You don’t have to watch after me. I can keep up, see. Better than you can, obviously.”

            He squints, following the arch of her foot with a soaked cotton ball, lips pursing as she hisses. “Sorry. Somebody had to stay behind you to make sure you didn’t slip in those ridiculous heels and that absurd skirt. The FBI isn’t going to pause and check out your legs as they’re hunting you down, you know.”

            “You’d be surprised,” she hums wryly. He shakes his head, not wanting to think about that. “Yeah, I know you like the catsuit look more, but I wasn’t feeling it today. And those ‘ridiculous heels’ are Christian Louboutins, thank you very much.”

            He scoffs. “Henley. Expensive shoes over jail?” In all his time with her, she’s never fallen or slipped in them, but he doesn’t want her taking chances.

            Henley knocks his wrist with the side of her right foot. “It would have been fine. I don’t know why you’re fussing so much,” she leans forward. “Aw, wait, are you worried about me?”

            “If you got arrested, we’d probably have to refund some people’s tickets. Or, wait, no, I don’t think they’d notice, they come for me anyways,” he evades, swiping Liquid Band-Aid over her cuts. “There you go.”

            “Awww, you actually were,” she coos blithely, sliding her feet from his lap so she can lean forward and pat his cheek. “I can see through you, you know.”

            He rolls his eyes. “Whatever, Henley. It’s late.”

            “What, no offer to carry me to bed?” she says coyly, the corner of her ruby-red lips curling.

            “You only get to be carried once per day,” he retorts, hoping she didn’t see him swallow hard.

            She laughs and stands up, glancing down at him. Her features soften.

            “You don’t have to worry about me, you know. But thanks. It’s very sweet.”

            Before he quite realizes what’s going on, she pecks him on the cheek before walking away with a cheery, “Night, Danny!”

**Act 5**

He hates this fake mustache with religious fervor. Really. He does.  

            Especially because every time he overtakes Merritt’s tour bus he seems to be on the verge of having some sort of fit.

            It doesn’t matter anyway, because Jack’s car is speeding through the bridge, winding through with blatant disregard for the astonished cursing of the other drivers. Alma Dray and Agent Rhodes in a silver sedan screech after him, a whole squadron of FBI standard-issue SUVs following them and a helicopter in the air.

            The swap takes place with the easy simplicity known to New York street conmen, daring tourists and businessmen alike to guess under which bowl lies the coin. There’s something thrilling about swerving left and right against traffic, scraping by other cars and racing down the highway. Not to mention the thought of Rhodes’ face when the decoy car will inevitably flip and go down in a fiery, headline-worthy ball of flames. He feels invincible, glowing and brilliant and rejoicing in his own youth, and when Henley drives past him in her black bob-cut wig, shoulders shaking and head thrown back, he can’t help but join her in a peal of laughter.  

            Danny glances over at the rest of the group as they wait for the elevator at Five Pointz. Jack, hopefully, has done his job and the money is all in Thaddeus Bradley’s car. He’ll meet them in Central Park, if he’s done everything right. A small burst of pride blossoms in his chest – the kid’s really grown over the past year.

            Merritt seems oddly preoccupied. He’s not really a bad sort, he figures. Annoying, yes, immature, yes, and he has a complete lack of boundaries when it comes to flirting, yes, and he really, really hates that look he gets when he’s trying to use his “mentalism” on someone, especially Danny, but he’s alright.

            And then there’s Henley, her hair in bouncing red waves around her shoulders, tilting her head back to peer up at the elevator, muttering under her breath about old machinery and technicians. Her arms are crossed, fingers drumming impatiently on her elbows, looking totally comfortable with her surroundings, like always.

He, on the other hand, is strangely nervous. Not because of the act itself – everything is perfectly arranged. He saw to it multiple times. Because it marks the end of their journey, the overarching climax, and if it isn’t all what it hoped to be, well.

            As if sensing his thoughts, Henley pipes up in the elevator, the rasp of her voice shattering the anticipative silence, “Even if there was no Eye, if we were completely played and we spent the next 20 years in jail, then I just want to say that…”

            He looks up. Her eyes are on him, and him alone, and they’re soft and warm and his mouth goes dry. “I know,” he says, and it comes out harsher than intended. Taking in a breath, he nods slightly, lowering his voice. “Me too.”

            It’s not good enough, it’s never good enough, but she gets him because she’s Henley and he’s Danny, and the curve of her lips is all he notices even as Merritt makes some jibe about him being a dick.

            He lets Merritt out of the elevator first, then Henley, and then he exits.

            “Hey, Danny?” She’s stopped, waiting for him.

            Suddenly worried, he ignores Merritt passing into the rooms ahead already and hurries up to her. “Yeah?”

            She curls her fingers into the crook of his elbow, tilting her head as if considering something, and he’s usually pretty good at understanding the glances she gives him, but this one is totally new.

            Suddenly her other hand is pulling him by the lapels, and before he has time to react, her mouth is pressing against his, warm and slightly sticky with her lipstick and more intoxicating than wine, than adrenaline, than the surge of applause from an audience.

            Much too soon, Henley pulls away. “Break a leg,” she winks, and then her fingers uncurl from his elbow as she makes to walk away.

            Well, he already knows now not to let her leave.

            He tugs her back to him, leaning down against her gracelessly – she’s so tiny, even in her teetering heels, but even as he thinks that she’s chuckling a little into the corner of his mouth at the way their teeth clatter and the tip of her nose bends against his cheekbone, but then they’re closing their eyes and her fingers are in his hair and his other hand clutches at her hip and for a second there he forgets there was anything ever called The Eye.

            Pulling away, he notes with satisfaction that she’s breathing hard, but that’s nothing when he is too.

            Dazed, he reaches out to wipe away the smudge of red at the corner of her mouth before he can think, but she just hums.

            “Never mind.”

            Danny blinks, knitting his eyebrow together. “Never mind?” he echoes, confused.

            The curve of her smile presses against his thumb. “We don’t need luck.”

 

**Epilogue**

 

            “I can’t believe this,” he mumbles, as Rhodes – Shrike? – somehow materializes onto the revolving carousel, the sweet strains of the music filtering through the night air.

            Jack’s eyes are bigger than those of a child discovering a puppy under the tree on Christmas Day. “Me neither. It’s really real.”

            He huffs at both the oxymoron and the misunderstanding. He ought to have known, he ought to have seen the signs – he, J. Daniel Atlas, master of deception and illusion, duped.

            Henley elbows him sharply, shaking her head in playful exasperation. “Come on, you.”

            He hates surprises, and he hates puzzles, and he hates mysteries. But, as gloved fingers intertwine with his and he’s tugged along forcefully and they leap on the carousel, maybe some plot twists aren’t so bad.

**El Fin**


End file.
